


Pillow Talk

by mzanthropist



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Smoaking billionaires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2863043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzanthropist/pseuds/mzanthropist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt from otpprompts:</p>
<p>Imagine your OT3 sleeping in bed together… Only, they aren’t doing much sleeping. Person A and person B are chatting away with eachother into the wee hours of the morning, while person C has to listen and try to deal with the noise while getting some sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk

Oliver’s no stranger to sleep deprivation and falling short of the recommended eight hours. It’s an inevitable corollary of the vigilance he’d cultivated on the island; when every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves potentially portended imminent death, sleep becomes a thing of luxury and secondary importance. Factor in his subconscious’s dogged insistence on revisiting the island and the five years that he’d rather forget, and it’s not unusual to find him restless and alert as night stretches into morning.

 

But since beginning to spend nights at Felicity’s, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep has become significantly less elusive. Oliver wasn’t one for deep introspection and self-reflection (he’s on this side of emotionally obtuse even on his best days), but it’s plain even to him that a lot of why he’s been so well rested (and less grouchy, according to Roy) as of late could be attributed to the recent change in his sleeping arrangements.

 

Only, he wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d be getting that night, what with Tommy and Felicity giggling and whispering loudly to his right, the bright glow from Felicity’s tablet blinding him through his closed lids.

 

The thing is, the two of them talk  _a lot_. In fact, they’re easily the most loquacious people Oliver knows. Between them, they carry on easy and unceasing repartees, rhythmic and seamless in their transitions and segues. The antithesis to his own terseness, Oliver is constantly struck by their ability to fill the gaps left by his silences so effortlessly and almost unconsciously. It’s a strange comfort.

 

So normally, he has no objections to their constant and dizzying stream of dialogue. He doesn’t even mind when they deliver obnoxious commentary as he runs through his workout routine, turning his training sessions into pseudo-episodes of American Ninja Warrior. It’s just when he’s trying to squeeze in a few hours of shuteye between an exhausting night of vigilantism and likely an equally draining morning of investor-courting that it becomes an issue.

 

But despite all of his internal grumbling, Oliver can’t find it in himself to express as much. Not when Felicity’s side was pressed snugly against him, the smooth length of her calves draped over his, and Tommy’s fingertips scrub soothing, wandering patterns into his scalp. Instead, Oliver leans unconsciously into their touches, greedy for their warmth. He doesn’t know when he got so easy.

 

“Oh my God,” Felicity whisper-shouts, her neck craning to peer up at Tommy. Her eyes are wide and a giddy smile splits her lips. “Is this you with a  _bowl cut_?”

 

“Shut up,” Tommy mutters grumpily, sinking low into the mattress. Oliver’s lips curl into a smirk, eyes still sealed shut; he doesn’t need a photo to conjure up the image.

 

“It was the 90s, okay? And I wasn’t the only kid sporting the look.” Tommy sniffs haughtily. “I can’t help that I was on-trend even back then.”

 

“Clearly,” Felicity deadpans, “because would you look at that? You’ve even got the parted down the middle thing going on.”

 

Growling, Tommy lunges forward for the tablet, causing Felicity to arch away with a surprised squeak of her own. Oliver narrowly dodges an elbow to the temple as her arm flails wildly over his head to keep the device out of Tommy’s outstretched hand. “It was in at the time!” Tommy whines petulantly.

 

“Quit being such a baby,” she teases, drawing the extended arm and tablet back towards herself as Tommy retreats. “I love it. Very Devon Sawa circa 1995.” She sighs dreamily. “I had the biggest crush on him when I was younger. My bubbe sent me  _Casper_ on VHS as a Hanukkah gift when I was seven, and it probably stayed in the VCR for a good part of a year; I watched it like a child possessed. So this haircut,” her nail clacks against the screen emphatically, head nodding in approval, “it’s a very good thing. In fact, I might need you to recreate this look for me one day for some purely self-indulgent reasons.”

 

“Yeah,” Tommy scoffs, giving his head a slight shake, “never going to happen.” His eyes narrow warily as Felicity’s lips pull together in thought. “No matter how enticing a spin you might put on it.”

 

The pensive purse drops into a defeated pout. “Tommy Merlyn, crushing girlhood fantasies since 1985,” she laments with a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’m taking that one to my grave.”

 

Tommy’s forehead crinkles in amusement. “Wait, are you telling me that one of the things you want to do before you die is make out with a guy whose hair has been cut to resemble a bowl?”

 

“Yup,” Felicity confirms. “It’s actually one of the top three on my bucket list.”

 

Oliver turns his face into Felicity’s curls, hiding the grin stretched across his face. An affectionate chuckle rumbles in Tommy’s chest. “If you’re being serious, – and judging from your face,” his eyes sweep over her sober features, “you are – you have some strange priorities.”

 

“I can’t help what’s important to me,” she replies matter-of-factly.

 

“Maybe you could convince Oliver,” Tommy suggests, chin dipped and eyebrows waggling. “The blond hair probably makes him a more suitable stand-in for Devon Sawa. And we both know he’ll do pretty much anything you ask.”

 

Oliver’s lips press together dourly. _Anything but that_. He preferred that that particular trend remain firmly in the past, to be brought up only in conversations that opened with “the 90s, what a crazy time” or other similar contexts.

 

Felicity snorts. “I doubt that. I’ve known Oliver for, what, two-and-a-half years now? And in all that time, he has only ever rocked the standard crew cut.” She shakes her head. “I’m half convinced his hair just stops growing when it hits the one-inch mark.”

 

Tommy gazes over Felicity’s head, his palm and fingers skimming lightly over the dark blond bristles that cover the curve of Oliver’s skull. He hums low in agreement, finger pads settling over Oliver’s scalp to resume their previous ministrations.

 

“How’d you get these pictures, anyway?” he asks, squinting down at a photo of his four-year-old self smiling through a beard of frosting and cake as Felicity coos adoringly.

 

“Malcolm,” Tommy’s features twist churlishly while Oliver tamps down the ire that flares in his chest, “had Thea over for dinner last Friday. She was doing what she insists was ‘exploring’ and what I call ‘snooping’ when she came across some old family albums.” With a faint smirk, Felicity shrugs a shoulder. “She figured I’d get a kick out of them. She wasn’t wrong.”

 

“I regret having introduced you two,” Tommy grouses, though the sour look has loosened into a good-natured smile. “The two of you together are nothing but trouble.”

 

“Ha! You love it, don’t even bother denying it. And I imagine we’re nothing compared to you and Oliver.” Felicity shoots him a pointed look over her glasses. “I’ve heard the horror stories from your heyday. You’re just lucky the two of you are so damn charming.”

 

“You know what they say, where there’s mischief, there’s got to be charm,” Tommy singsongs.

 

“Absolutely no one says that.”

 

“Okay, I guess just me, then.”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Felicity responds, eyes rolling while a smile tugs at her lips. She continues scrolling through photos with the swipe of her finger.

 

“God, just how long was your basketball shorts phase? I’m starting to think you owned no other pair of pants or shorts between ages of thirteen and sixteen. And more importantly, did they ever get worn in the context of an actual game?” Shrewd blue eyes turn to him. “Because I’ve never seen you so much as dribble a ball in all the years I’ve known you.”

 

“They were comfortable!” Tommy protests defensively. “They had the stretchy waistband and were non-constricting in the crotch region. It was basically freedom embodied in a pair of shorts!”

 

“Okay, not sure I’d go that far…”

 

“Please,” Tommy interjects dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes, “spare me from having to look at more embarrassing photos. I don’t have it in me to justify any more of the many terrible choices from my youth.”

 

Felicity digs a finger into his side, eliciting a soft yelp. “Quid pro quo, my friend. You’ve gotten to see me in all my gawky adolescent glory.”

 

Tommy’s lips curl roguishly, arm dropping to his side. “And how magnificent it was.”

 

“Yeah,” Felicity scoffs, “I must’ve been a real package what with my utter lack of coordination and propensity for taking awkward situations to impossible levels of mortification. Not to mention the braces and glasses and acid-washed overalls I was convinced I’d wear for the rest of my life.”

 

“No, _that_  was adorable,” Tommy says, playfully tugging at a blond curl. She swats him away half-heartedly. “But the black hair and purple streaks of college-Felicity?” His voice drops an octave. “Very hot.” Oliver purrs quietly in agreement.

 

“Hmm. Well, if you won’t recreate my fantasies, there’s no way I’m going to recreate yours. Like I said, quid pro quo.”

 

Tommy chuckles. “In that case, I may have to reconsider my position.”

 

“Yes, please do.”

 

A comfortable silence follows, broken only by soft taps against the tablet and rustle of fabric as a leg or arm shifts under the sheets. Oliver’s pretence begins to turn genuine as the rhythmic rise and fall of Felicity’s chest and Tommy’s caress at his scalp work in concert to dull his senses.

 

“Oh, who’s this?” comes Felicity’s sudden query, her voice gently tugging him away from the edge of consciousness. Her hair tickles at his nose as she tilts her head to peer up at their bedfellow. Tommy fingers suddenly still and draw away.

 

There’s no answer for several beats, the air oddly still and heavy. Brows furrowing, Oliver cracks open an eye, concerned curiosity chasing away his earlier languidness. His gaze passes over Tommy’s carefully empty eyes and tense set of his jaw before resting on the glowing tablet in Felicity’s hand. His breath hitches with a jolt of recognition. Oliver slides his lid shut, chest tight as he waits for Tommy’s response.

 

“That,” Tommy’s voice, hollow and devoid of all its previous levity, cracks. There’s a soft whoosh of inhale. “That,” he tries again, voice holding steadier this time, “was my mom.”

Felicity releases a breathy “oh”. Neither of them speaks, transfixed by the image on the screen.

 

Tommy, Oliver knows, never handles the mention of his mother well. His expression loses all of its usual alacrity, turning stony as his jaw locks and eyes shutter on the rare occasions she’s brought up in conversation. He seems to keep all memories of her at arms-length, close enough so he doesn’t forget, but far enough that he doesn’t really remember.

 

Felicity’s worries her bottom lip. “You don’t –,” she starts, voice soft and hesitant. Her throat works, fingers toying with a loose thread on her shirt as she searches for the right words. “You never talk about her.”

 

“I think,” Tommy says slowly, “I’m just not used to being able to talk about her.”

 

She frowns in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

 

Tommy turns his gaze toward the ceiling, inspecting the stucco unseeingly. “It was almost an unspoken rule at home, not speaking about my mother. My father never liked it when I brought her up. He never expressly told me so, but the way this detached blankness would wash over his face, how he’d drop whatever the hell he was doing and just walk out of the room spoke volumes. Maybe it was too painful for him, I don’t know. We didn’t exactly indulge in father-son heart-to-hearts too often.” He laughs humourlessly. “So, it just became something I did, filtering out thoughts of my mom, catching and stopping myself anytime I found myself wanting to talk about her.”

 

Tommy blows out a long breath, shoulders hunching forward. “Sometimes, I go  _days_  without even thinking of her once. Other times, her face gets fuzzy or I forget what her voice sounded like, the smell of her favourite perfume,” he admits, guilt colouring each word. “And that - that scares me. Because I shouldn’t have to remind myself to think of my own mother. I shouldn’t have to work so hard to keep her memory alive.” His head shakes plaintively. “But the details keep slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to make them stop.”

 

Felicity blinks away the tears pricking at her eyes. The tablet drops onto her duvet-covered thigh, the hand reaching up to gently cup his cheek and bring his eyes to meet hers. “Tommy, you could  _never_  forget your mother,” she says with earnest conviction. “Maybe some of the details have become hazy with time, not as vivid or sharp, but that in no way means that the memories of your time with her aren’t still with you. They are a part of you and you  _know_ them, almost like a favourite bedtime story.” She offers a small smile. “And Oliver and I are here, you know that, right? We’ll always be willing to listen if you want to talk about your mother. Whatever story you want to tell, whatever detail you suddenly remember, we’re  _here_.”

 

Oliver’s heart swells, grateful that Felicity could put into words everything that he knows he couldn’t possibly articulate.

 

“I know,” Tommy sighs, resting his hand over her smaller one at his cheek. He twines their fingers together and brings her knuckles to his lips. He draws in a centring breath.

 

“She died when I was seven,” he murmurs against the bone and skin, eyes fluttering shut, “murdered by a thief in the Glades. It was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I remember being so angry because I just couldn’t understand  _why_. Why it had to be her of the billions of people in the world. All she’d ever wanted was to help people, to make the Glades a better place in whatever way she could. And all she’d gotten in return was a bullet to the abdomen and a slow, meaningless death on some cracked pavement as people walked by, completely turning a blind eye to a bleeding,  _dying_  woman who was  _begging_  for help.” He shakes his head violently, blinking back the wetness in his eyes. “None of them were willing to help her. It was just,” he exhales harshly through his nose, “backwards and fucking  _unfair_.”

 

Bringing their clasped hands onto her lap, Felicity presses a comforting kiss to Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. She deserved better,” she whispers sincerely. “I wish I’d known her.”

 

Tommy brings his lips to the soft hair at her temple. “She would’ve loved you.” Unlacing his fingers from Felicity’s, he reaches for the abandoned tablet. A tap brings the screen to life. “Do you think you could send me a copy of this?” he asks, eyes trained on his mother’s face. “I don’t have a lot of photos of her, and I’ve never seen this one before…”

 

“Of course,” Felicity replies, head bobbing enthusiastically. “I could do it now if you want.”

 

“No. It can wait.”

 

Her eyes dart over his face searchingly. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

 

“I am,” Tommy assures her, lightness gradually creeping back into his features. “Besides, I’m kind of curious to see what other photos Thea managed to dig up.”

 

Felicity murmurs an agreement, legs sliding against Oliver’s as she shifts to cushion her head against Tommy’s chest. Only her lower back and rear make contact with the mattress beneath her. “You know,” she muses idly, “if you guys insist on sleeping over all the time, I think it’s time I invest in a larger bed.”

 

Tommy’s his head swivels, finger paused over the tablet. “No, you should keep this one. We  _like_ this one.” A questioning brow lifts primly. “It’s cozy,” is the lame explanation he offers.

 

Felicity huffs a soft laugh. “That’s not the term I’d use to describe our sleeping arrangements. Because if it’s somehow escaped your notice, I’ve got two six-foot-something men, one of whom’s built like a fridge-”

 

“I’m guessing that’s not me,” Tommy interjects with a pout.

 

“Not unless you’re the one moonlighting as a bow-and-arrow wielding, rooftop-jumping vigilante,” Felicity ripostes dryly.

 

Tommy sighs melodramatically. “I guess I’ll have to settle for being the cute, doughy one.”

 

She thwacks his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand. “As I was saying,” she says, eyes rolling at the exaggerated jut of his bottom lip, “having two grown men sleeping on either side of me on a bed meant to accommodate one is more suffocating than it is cozy. And it’s just not going to work for me in the long term.”

 

She blows a wisp of hair out of her face. “I wake up either sandwiched sideways and drooling into someone’s hair, or splayed across one or the both of you, which probably is not doing your organs any favours. And don’t even get me started on the blanket situation. Are you aware of just how much of a blanket-hog you are, Tommy? I mean, it’s not really that big of a deal considering Oliver burns like a furnace – Oh my God!” Felicity’s ramble ends abruptly as she bolts upright, clambering over Tommy to snatch the tablet from his grip.

 

“Completely sidestepping the fact that you paired a polo shirt with neon orange basketball shorts,” her head cants in consideration, “although kudos on the complementary colours – but do my eyes deceive me,” the words are spoken slowly, incredulity infusing each one, “or is this Oliver Jonas Queen with  _frosted tips_?”

 

Tommy’s answering snigger serves as confirmation. Felicity collapses against the headboard, her body quaking with silent laughter. “This is the greatest!” she wheezes. “And becoming my wallpaper for everything!”

 

“Oh, Smoak, this is nothing.” Tommy grins crookedly, eyes twinkling with his patented mischief. “Wait till you see the photos from what I like to call his ‘beach bum slash boy band-reject’ phase. Fair warning, there’s a lot of hair gel and enough puka shells to start a jewellery line.”

 

Oliver groans internally. First thing tomorrow, he was ransacking the manor and burning every photo of that mortifying phase in existence. Every single one.

 

Felicity cackles, tapping maniacally on her tablet. “I’m recruiting Thea for this.”

 

Oliver’s eyes snap open; Thea would make damn sure to chronologise the entirety of his misspent youth, complete with videos and magazine clippings.

 

Lifting onto a forearm, he wrests the tablet in one fluid movement, eliciting a high-pitched yip of alarm from Felicity. He quickly deletes the half-written message and turns off the device, grimacing at the momentary appearance of his fifteen-year-old self before the screen blackens. Oliver sets the device on the nightstand, then turns to the two pairs of eyes blinking at him in the darkness.

 

He quirks a brow with a pointed look. “We should get some sleep.” Not waiting for a response, he rolls onto his back and places his interlaced fingers over his stomach. Tommy and Felicity stare at one another in dumbfounded silence.

 

“How long do you think we have before he gets rid of all the photos at the manor?” Felicity asks in a barely audible whisper that Oliver’s sensitive ears nevertheless pick up.

 

“He’ll be up at the crack of dawn and headed over before he’s even had a cup of coffee,” Tommy answers grimly.

 

“Text Thea. Right now.”

 

He nods, reaching for his phone. “Giving Raisa a heads up as well.”

 

“Oh, good idea.”

 

Oliver groans.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please drop a review either here or on tumblr if you've got the time. I love hearing back from readers!


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